


Only If For a Night

by crystalsoulslayer



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Caning, F/M, Light Bondage, Pegging, mention of doctor/master
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:46:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalsoulslayer/pseuds/crystalsoulslayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>River has her way with Eleven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only If For a Night

“Please? Just for tonight?”

She smiled indulgently. “You don’t get whatever you want just by asking, sweetie.” River brushed her palm over his forehead, wiping sweat away, and he’d have purred if he could.

“What about begging?” the Doctor asked, slyly. “If I beg?”

Suddenly stern, she smacked him once, hard, on the arse, and he yelped with a little start. “Don’t even think about it. You only get to beg if it’s something I’m inclined to give you.”

He slumped a little, defeated. “It’d be nice, though,” he said, trailing fingertips over his balls and shivering at their sensitivity. “For both of us. It’d stop me kicking,” he pointed out, halfheartedly.

She slapped his hand away and, obediently, he moved it back to his cock, stroking slowly. He wasn’t allowed to touch the head, so he merely moved up and down along the shaft; his other wrist was cuffed to the headboard, so it couldn’t misbehave.

“Ready?”

He nodded, bending further forward and burying his face in the pillows. This was going to hurt.

The first strike landed just below the [humbler](http://farm1.staticflickr.com/54/119712750_0c93259179_z.jpg?zz=1), making him jump and yelp again. She could hear his labored breathing, muffled by the pillows, and asked gently, “Too much?”

“Nuh-uh,” the Doctor replied, with a little wiggle of his hips. His hand had quickened on his erection for a few seconds after the blow, but had resumed its steady pace once more.

The second strike landed over his arse, and this time he merely twitched, though again his hand quickened, his breath hissed between his teeth. She waited to deliver the third, this one a vertical stroke to the perineum, until he’d calmed, and got a shuddering, half-swallowed scream in reply.

The Doctor loved the cane. He’d once told her, half-joking, that it came from his days at the Academy. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t from the punishments themselves, which were frequent and highly unpleasant, but from the company he got afterward. The Doctor was a connoisseur of comfort sex. By the time he was in his mid-twenties, canes and sex had become so inextricably linked in his mind that even a decade of therapy couldn’t disentangle the two. He gave up before long. It was a convenient association.

They settled into a steady, slow rhythm. The Doctor could withstand quicker blows, of course, and had done so many times over the course of his thousand years, but River didn’t like him to break so much as bend.

When his arse was striped red, pink, black, and blue, she decided to stop, as her arm ached fiercely. His hand trembled around his straining, painful cock, and she gave him leave to stop. He dropped his hand with a sigh, slumping forward further still.

Next was the lube, applied drop by drop to the finger-spread, clean pink pucker nestled between the twin pale swells of his buttocks. What little escaped rolled, cold and clear, down to the humbler and vanished beneath it. He cooed happily, rocking back and forth onto her finger, when she dipped a single lonely digit past the rim, fucking him slowly with it. She shifted to sit by his side instead of next to his feet, fingering him with one hand and tousling his sweaty, disarrayed hair with the other. He pouted and hummed, driven beyond words by sensation.

“You’re not ready,” she reminded him.

“Make me,” he whined, pressing back into her hand. “Like the burn.”

“Well, I don’t,” she said firmly, driving the point home with a light smack to his trapped balls. He shrieked and pulled away, uncuffed hand clutching hard at his pillow. She watched a bead of sweat form on his temple and slide down his cheek, murmuring, “Which is why you can’t sleep in the humbler. I’m not doing anything that could cause permanent damage.”

“I’ll be careful,” he promised, barely coherent. “Keep my legs… keep still. Curled up. Wanna wake up with it. Just… tonight.”

“Well, you can’t,” she said summarily, and resumed fingering him. He whimpered lightly and started riding it again, urging it on, showing off how open and relaxed he was in hopes that she’d get on with it. “You’re being rather insolent,” River warned, “and I’m inclined not to give you your treat.”

“’Msorry can’t help it, please don’t… please _take_ … me… takeme takeme _fuck_!” He pouted at her, eyes hazy with a heady blend of lust and pain. “Don’ do that.”

“Don’t make me,” she answered, but with a little smile to show she understood. To make up for the slap, she rubbed the offending area with the heel of her hand, and he twitched and gasped at the sensation on his balls. It’s all pleasant pressure, and he humps the air a few times before coming back to his senses. When she checks back, his eyes are closed, mouth open wide against the pillow, her offense forgotten.

He was patient after that, letting her fingers have their way with his arsehole with none of his previous pouting. Naturally, though, he was still very appreciative, humming and letting out soft, plaintive sounds now and then. Clearly, she was still going too slow for him.

When the pleading exhalations outnumbered the happy hums, she withdrew her fingers, ignoring the Doctor’s renewed pouting, and resumed her position behind him, taking in the slope of his arched back, the sweaty sprout of hair protruding from the pillows, the fading marks on his raised arse. His thighs trembled a little.

“Trust me?” she asked, kissing his hip, and he babbled that he did. “I don’t want you to fall,” she said, “with the humbler on your balls.” He whimpered lightly at the dirty talk, and she smirked. “Left side or right side? How would you like to lie down?”

The Doctor mumbled “left,” and she guided him down, down, until he was settled on his left side with his legs curled in front of him. He was insanely comfortable, and smiled up at her. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” River lay down next to him, her head about level with his shoulder blade, and lined up the false cock strapped to her front with his arse. When she started pressing inexorably inside, he cried out her name with the same combination of adoration and reverence he’d once applied to the Master’s. But they have no need of titles, no chasing, no posturing, no duels. There’s no contest between them, only the gentle ache in his arse as she stretched him, the firm pressure on her clit as he resisted stretching.

He kept repeating her name, _River, River_ , over and over, growing louder at first and then suddenly soft as his voice separated from his brain. The Doctor was loud, of course, when he wanted to be and when it was asked of him, but the quiet crooning that spilled out of him now was River’s very favorite sound in the entirety of the universe. It was Gallifreyan, untranslatable and pure.

She understood only some, just enough to know that he felt so _safe_ like this. Safe in a way that was tremulous and unstable and heavy inside him, and so very fleeting. He felt wanted. Cared for, even, despite his apparent mistreatment, and with such a deep fervor that its lack would, on an evening they spent apart, be enough to make him scream her name into his pillows in yearning.

But now he was just soft, and quiet, and still. She scooted back, tilted the cock forward, and speared inside a few times, seeking his prostate, and he cooed happily. On other nights, they’d spend hours like this, when River wanted to test the Doctor’s staggering capacity for endurance. But they’d just been out and about, and they were tired, so there won’t be any dry orgasms, no testing, teasing fingers stacking one-two-three-four until her wrist disappeared inside him.

He didn’t mind. He takes what he can get.

She draped her right arm over his chest, slipping her left between his neck and the pillow to cradle his head, and worked her lips over his cheek and jaw, still thrusting, deep and slow.

He started to tremble, just slightly, at her touch, and she gave him leave at last to touch himself. He fumbled a little as he took his erection in hand, whimpering as he started to stroke; his cock was already slick with precome, full and swollen. He had to pace himself to keep from coming and stopping this, stopping her, where she worked in him again and again.

It wasn’t until she brushed mischievous fingers over his balls that he realized _he wouldn’t be able to finish with the humbler on_ , and he thought he might cry. He needed it so much he ached.

“Will you do as you’re told?”

“Yes,” he said, almost before she finished asking the question.

“Be good, and you come. Otherwise I’m getting ice water.”

He made a strangled sound, and she wasn’t sure if it meant he thought that was the worst idea he’d ever heard or the best one. (He didn’t know, either.)

“You’re going to eat me out.”

The Doctor humped the air again as she pulled out and started undoing buckles. “Please,” he rasped, his hand working faster still on his cock, and he watched her unlock the cuff from the bedpost. As soon as his wrist was free, he wriggled backwards down the bed, and before she could order it, his mouth was hot and hungry on her cunt. She howled at the sudden stimulation, her legs wrapped around his shoulders of their own accord, and she arched into him, letting his hands wander freely over her naked body. Her own hands tangled themselves in his hair and stayed there, pulling and pushing in turns.

The Doctor spread her wider with his fingertips and his tongue entered, then spread inside, pulled back out before moving back up to the tiny exposed button that was currently the center of her universe. His face was wet from nose to chin by the time the hot ache in her resolved into orgasm, and she’d barely recovered when he crawled up her body and ground his hard cock against her stomach, whispering the Gallifreyan for “please.” His hands settled on the sides of her face, his weight on his elbows, and his thighs trembled with the effort of not falling forward.

When she reached down to open the catch that kept the humbler’s halves from separating, he stilled her hands with one of his own and said, “I could stay hard all night. All day, if you want. Please. _Please_.” He heard the catch pop open and whined into her shoulder when she finally took the humbler off.

“I’m hiding this from you,” she said, laughing, putting it aside, and rubbing his balls firmly. His knees went weak and he collapsed on top of her, shuddering as blood started flowing again. She didn’t stop until he was a blubbering mess, and only when he was incapable of coherent speech did she finally give him permission to finish. Time Lord orgasms naturally last quite a bit longer than human ones, and she held him, petting and stroking and soothing as he twitched and shivered for the next ten minutes or so. (It wasn’t a record. River had once managed to draw it out for three hours, just with light touches and probing fingers every couple of minutes. He’d been so exhausted afterward that he slept for almost a day, and even that was _nothing_ compared to the Master’s shenanigans, which required the administration of intravenous fluids and muscle relaxants. Shenanigans. Beautiful word, that. He should use it more often.)

She knows it’s finally done when he rolls off of her, curls up, lays his head on her chest with a contented hum. “Better?”

“Mmmnn,” he mumbled, eyes closed, feeling around himself for sheets. She pulled them over him, then the comforter, and he smiled up at her blearily. After kissing him silly, she permitted him to put his head down again and fall asleep. If he has nightmares, they aren’t bad enough to wake him, and they sleep soundly together, pleasantly sore and sticky.


End file.
